


Something You Said

by randomhorse



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, M/M, and a cat, hand-knitted jumpers, no seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomhorse/pseuds/randomhorse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things were so good but now it looks like Grantaire will spend Christmas on his own. Getting drunk on cold mulled wine is no permanent solution, but then a cat happens and a suspicious lot of Les Amis are casually dropping by. Looks like Enjolras has a bit of Christmas spirit in him after all.</p><p>(this works as a stand-alone or as a sequel to my other modern au, close quarters)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something You Said

**Author's Note:**

> I don't apologize for basically putting all the fluff I could think of (including a cat) into one Christmas themed fic. Merry Christmas!
> 
> As always, this is not beta-ed, so if you find any mistakes, keep them for your own enjoyment or kindly let me know so I can correct them. Enjoy!

While the snow tumbles down endlessly outside the window, Grantaire gets drunk on the mulled wine left from yesterday’s party.

Enjolras is gone. Time to bring on the festive spirit.

Cold mulled wine is as close to rock bottom as it gets. It’s fifty percent sugar, at least, and he’s probably already in some kind of pre-stadium of diabetes, after emptying just half the bottle. He’s also out of alternatives. Before Enjolras left, he raided all of Grantaire’s hiding spots and made sure there was not one drop of high-percent booze left in the flat. It would be almost endearing, the way he wants him save while he’s gone, if it wasn’t so fucking annoying. Because apparently, Enjolras also wants him miserable.

But then, Enjolras is the one who left. It was most likely something he, Grantaire, said, Grantaire thinks, and lifts the bottle to his lips. It’s always something he says. Things were so good, and lasted way longer than he ever expected, and of course he had to ruin everything. He doesn’t even remember what they were bickering about last night. Must’ve been bad.

The sweetness and the alcohol make him nauseous, and the snow keeps falling, and Grantaire turns up the heating because he knows he’ll be freezing tonight.

Christmas is for wimps, Grantaire thinks. Christmas is for people who feel sorry for themselves to feel _even sorrier_ for themselves. Christmas is for people who need constant reassurance of their peer group that they’re still wanted around. Christmas is the time of year it’s okay to walk the streets alone, crying, because being lonely all year is depressing, but being alone on Christmas Eve is something you sing songs about, with sleigh-bells ringing rhythmically in the background.

In other words, the state he’s in, Christmas should be Grantaire’s favourite time of year, but he hates it, he hates it mindlessly. He hates it even more this year because this November, walking the boulevards with Enjolras, their hands entangled and the first snowflakes melting in their hair, he found himself looking forward to it. For the first time since he was a child he felt that _glow_ inside of him, like a hot ball sitting right underneath his rib cage, that made him smile thinking about long cold nights and candle light and hot chocolate.

And now Enjolras is gone and it’s all Grantaire’s fault. The mulled wine is running short quickly and it’s not even getting dark outside yet. At this rate, Grantaire’s going to spend Christmas Eve alone _and_ sober. And that seems a bit too much of a punishment, even for him.

The flat is quiet without Enjolras. To be perfectly honest, their daily routines haven’t changed much since they got together. It’s not like they’d be fucking each other senseless every second they’ve got the flat to themselves – though Courfeyrac most certainly wants everybody to believe that. Enjolras is his usual energetic self and Grantaire paints a lot more than he used to, and at night they cuddle up on the mattress in Enjolras’ room and Grantaire’s no longer cold. It’s quiet, really.

They don’t talk much. They both know that if they do, they end up bickering, or worse, arguing. Grantaire used to think his words couldn’t really hurt Enjolras, since he’s never really listening anyways, but now that he’s gone, without much of an explanation, he’s not so sure anymore. He must’ve been hurt and it must’ve been something Grantaire said.

Grantaire gets up, and is vaguely satisfied that he’s already swaying slightly. Apparently, the mulled wine did have some effect, even if it didn’t stop the thoughts running round and round his head. He grabs his pack of tobacco and gets out on the balcony. Even with Enjolras gone he wouldn’t smoke in the flat, it’s ridiculous, really. The cold is biting his skin where single snowflakes melt on his bare arms. The roofs of Paris are white, and there’s snow in his ashtray.

There must be a way to make all of this a bit less of a mess. For now, a reason would be enough. For example, Enjolras could be required to spend Christmas Eve with his family. They are, after all, the reason Enjolras is still able to afford the flat. Though Grantaire would be surprised they are still supporting him, after Enjolras spent the better part of the past year making fuck-the-bourgeoisie speeches on national television. Then again, Grantaire isn’t really the one to understand how families work. He’s going to call is mother later. Maybe. Probably not.

A bit of snow lands in Grantaire’s neck, which causes him to almost drop his cigarette and let out an impressive tirade of swear words that are not remotely in the spirit of Christmas. When he looks up, there’s a cat sitting on the sloped roof, looking at him with judgemental green eyes.

“Fuck”, Grantaire says to the cat that’s balancing towards him now, causing tiny avalanches to roll down the roof. Its black tail points straight to the sky. Grantaire squirms as bits of molten snow run down his back. “Thanks for that.”

The cat doesn’t seem to mind, but light-footedly jumps on the edge of the balcony and rubs its head on Grantaire’s arm. Its green eyes have a shifty look to them.

He doesn’t really like cats, the way he doesn’t really like kids. It’s not like he hates them, no-one really _hates_ kids (or cats); it’s just that he doesn’t know what to do with them. They don’t respond to reasoning or arguments, and he always has a sense that they see right through his brittle façade. They’re also stubborn and selfish and stupid. Not so much unlike him, he realizes.

“You’re stupid, you know that?”, he says to the cat that’s now down on the floor, purring, rubbing shamelessly along his ankles.

He gives the cat a gentle kick and it stumbles in the snow, looks at him with its green eyes and is back at his ankles within a second. “Stupid”, he says. Too easily attached and too easily trusting. He smokes up quickly, he’s freezing.

The cat shoots right past him into the flat when he gets back inside, he can’t close the door fast enough.

“Shit”, Grantaire says. The cat jumps on Enjolras’ mattress and looks at him almost defiantly. Grantaire feels too heavy all of a sudden, too tired to get after it, so he just drops himself on the edge of the bed – that he shares now – and last night’s smell creeps into his nose and into his mind, triggering memories of soft skin, and softer lips, and heavy limbs. Not a good idea.

The cat falls on its side next to him, presenting its belly to be rubbed. “Have some self-respect”, Grantaire says, but still runs his fingers to the cat’s soft fur reluctantly. Its purring grows louder and its eyes close to slits. It seems to be smiling. Grantaire can feel the softness of Enjolras’ skin under his fingertips. “You little shit”, he says to the cat, and falls back on the mattress.

When the doorbell rings, Grantaire finds himself in the dilemma of having to get up while there’s a cat curled up on his belly that’s apparently very comfortable there. He quickly reminds himself he doesn’t even _like_ the cat and gets up anyways, but he can’t deny that the warmth of the little body and the rhythmic purring had some kind of comforting effect.

He gets to the door and opens it, with the cat trailing behind him.

“You’ve got a cat”, Jehan says.

“It’s not my cat”, Grantaire says. “What the hell _is_ that?”

Jehan is carrying a stack of what looks like seven or eight boxes, all wrapped up in Christmas paper.

“Presents!”, Jehan announces with a wide grin.

Grantaire needs a moment to let that sink in, and while he’s still standing in the door, Jehan manoeuvres his stack of Christmassy boxes right past him and into the kitchen. Grantaire’s thoughts move sluggishly, and the mulled wine is definitely to blame for that.

“What the hell, Jehan?”, he yells down the hallway.

“What the hell indeed”, Jehan says, emerging from the kitchen door holding the empty bottle of mulled wine. “You’re not serious, are you, Grantaire.”

Under the disapproving gaze of Jehan, Grantaire feels like a scolded schoolboy. Jehan is not usually the scolding kind, but what he lacks in authority, he makes up with dark doe eyes that look utterly disappointed.

“You _promised_ to stay away from that”, Jehan says.

“It was an accident”, Grantaire mutters.

Jehan raises one eyebrow.

“Enjolras is gone.” Grantaire is mildly surprised that his voice actually cracks. He didn’t think it was that bad, but apparently it is. “He was gone when I woke up and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Oh”, Jehan says. “Shit.”

“You tell me.”

Jehan is perfect, as always. He sits Grantaire down in the kitchen and makes him a cup of tea – not coffee, herbal tea (“soothing for body and soul”, it says on the package) – and rubs his back and doesn’t ask any stupid questions, except about the cat.

“You’ve got to explain that cat to me, Grantaire”, he says.

Grantaire shrugs. “I’ve got no idea, Jehan. It just – ambushed me?”

The cat’s happily accepting Jehan’s offer of friendship in the shape of a bowl full of milk (mixed with water, because apparently that’s what you’ve got to do if you give milk to your cat, who would’ve thought. Jehan is full of wisdom).

“I can’t very well just kick it out again, can I?”, Grantaire says. “I mean, it’s snowing. And it’s Christmas.”

Grantaire catches Jehan grinning into his mug.

“What?”

“I thought you don’t give a shit about Christmas.”

“The cat doesn’t know that”, Grantaire says, doing his best to sound as grumpy as ever.

That feeling he had, earlier, that glowing sensation, is a well-kept secret. He doesn’t quite dare to feel it yet, hell, as if he’d go around boasting about it to his friends. No. His friends he kept under the impression that Christmas is the last thing he cares about. Capitalistic consumer dictated shitfest. Enjolras seemed to like that.

“White Christmas”, Jehan muses, smiling, with a wistful look out of the window.

“Don’t you dare start singing”, Grantaire says, but can’t help smiling, if only a little bit. Jehan’s face lights up when he sees it.

“See, you’re better already”, Jehan says.

“Well. Yeah. Given the circumstances”, Grantaire says. Jehan smiles as if he’d already given him a Christmas present.

Suddenly, a realization is dawning upon Grantaire. “You didn’t just drop by because your Grantaire’s-doing-something-stupid senses were tingling, did you?”

“I thought I’d just pop in for tea”, Jehan says, sounding suspiciously light-hearted about it.

“With presents.” Grantaire gives him a questioning look.

Jehan blushes. “Yeah, I…”

“You’ve got something planned, don’t you?” Grantaire stares at him until he squirms in his chair. “Don’t you lie to me, Jean Prouvaire, you’re a shitty liar.”

“Grantaire, please, I…”

That’s when the doorbell goes.

“Ah”, Grantaire says. He gives Jehan a look that makes him shrink in his chair. “I’m not done with you.”

Courfeyrac’s at the door, with Marius and a pretty blonde girl Grantaire has never seen before. Courfeyrac is smiling widely like he’s Father Christmas himself, and Marius’ expression at least softens a bit when the blonde girl’s arm creeps around his waist.

“Merry Christmas!”, Courfeyrac booms into the hallway, and violently pushes a Christmas hat on Grantaire’s head.

“What the fuck”, Grantaire says, as the party storms right past him.

“I’m Cosette, by the way”, the blonde girl introduces herself, as she wiggles out of her coat. “I’m Marius’ girlfriend.” At the sound of that, Marius’ face lights up so brightly, Grantaire feels the sudden urge to put him on top of a Christmas tree. If they had one, that is. But at the rate things are going, that is only a matter of time.

“Nice to meet you”, Grantaire says.

“Help!”, Jehan shouts from the kitchen, and Grantaire finds him there covered in cuts and wrestling the cat. “Could you please, for the love of God, close the front door so I can let go of this monster!”, he cries.

“Door’s shut!”, Marius shouts from the hallway. “You’ve got a cat?”, he asks, as soon as he sees the little delinquent.

“It’s not my cat”, Grantaire says.

“It’s a he”, Jehan says.

“Holy shit, Prouvaire, are those all from you?”, Courfeyrac shouts when he spots the mountain of presents Jehan has stacked up in the back of the kitchen. “Geez, Jehan, I can’t match up to that.”

“That’s fine”, Jehan says, blushing.

“Wait, what do you mean he’s not your cat?”, Courfeyrac says, turning back to Grantaire. “What is he doing in your flat?”

“You are aware you can’t just steal people’s cats”, Marius says, in a feeble attempt at a joke.

“I didn’t _steal_ the cat”, Grantaire tries to defend himself, “Jesus Christ…”

“Whoa, did the cat do that to you?”, Courfeyrac  gets down next to Jehan on the floor and examines the cuts on his face. “Little monster.”

“It’s fine”, says Jehan, who’d blush again, had his face already returned to its normal colour.

The cat escaped from the mess with a jump on the kitchen counter and is now glaring at them from the top of the fridge.

“Who wants cookies?”, Courfeyrac asks, taking off his backpack.

“Okay”, Grantaire shouts, in a desperate attempt to gain control over the situation. “Okay. People. Everybody listen to me. What the hell is going on here?”

Courfeyrac beams at him. “We’re having a Christmas Party!”, he announces and puts his arm around Jehan’s shoulder. “You’re invited.”

“This is _my flat_ ”, Grantaire says.

“We’re aware of that”, Courfeyrac says, with a grin. “We thought this was the only way we could get you to come. Seriously, R, you’re worse than the Grinch.”

“Definitely”, Marius pipes up from behind him.

 “Okay guys”, Grantaire says, with a sigh, realizing that, with Courfeyrac putting his back into this, he’s up against insurmountable obstacles. “Is Enjolras in on this? Do you have any idea where he is?”

“I thought he was here”, Marius says, just a little bit too loudly to be entirely unsuspicious.

“Come on, Grantaire”, Courfeyrac says with a goofy grin. “He’s your boyfriend; you’re supposed to look after him.” The others laugh, and even Jehan, who really should not think this is funny, given that he knows the backstory, smiles a bit.

“Just for the record”, Grantaire says, with an exasperated sigh, “I hate all of you.”

“That’s the festive spirit we were looking for!”, Courfeyrac exclaims and starts pulling pre-packed Christmas cookies from his backpack.

Marius produces a bunch of candles and fairy lights from the depths of his messenger bag and Cosette seems to conjure a box of self-made cookies out of thin air. Courfeyrac sits down with a sigh. “Seriously, you’ve all sworn to outmatch me today, haven’t you.”

Jehan sits down next to him and shyly pats his back. “Never mind, it’s the thought that counts.”

“Thank God you’re incapable of sarcasm, Prouvaire,” Courfeyrac says.

“Been practising.” Jehan grins the most wicked grin Grantaire has ever seen on his face. And Courfeyrac still wears that goofy smile and almost shoves Jehan from his chair with a shoulder check. And although Grantaire is far too fond of his self-pity to admit it, there’s a lump forming in his throat that’s hard to swallow, and definitely not a product of sadness.

It’s already getting dark outside, around early afternoon, when Combeferre arrives.

“You’ve got a cat?”, he asks, as he shakes the snow off his impressive umbrella and the little devil plays catch with his shoelaces.

“It’s not mine…”, Grantaire starts, but Courfeyrac interrupts him.

“This cat,” he announces, “is now officially an honorary member of _Les Amis_. Who’s with me?”

Four glasses are raised with a unison cheer and Combeferre looks a bit lost. Courfeyrac all-too-happily obliges with the story about how Grantaire heroically saved the cat from the crippling cold, took him in and learned the true meaning of Christmas along the way.

“I just saw Bahorel and Joly on my way here,” Combeferre says, “and I might be mistaken but I think they kidnapped Santa and are bringing him here this very moment.”

He takes off his hat and folds his long limbs into a chair. Jehan hurries to get him a cup of tea. They’re drinking Jehan’s tea, all of them. Marius brought a fresh bottle of mulled wine, which Jehan cautiously hid under his chair as soon as he got hold of it. Grantaire pretended not to see. He doesn’t really care. His mulled wine induced haze is slowly lifting and he doesn’t mind at all.

“Apart from that”, Combeferre says, “my gift to all of you, tonight…” He pauses dramatically and with a grand gesture points towards the guitar case in the hallway. “Music.”

There are several Ooohs and Aaaahs, mainly from Jehan and Cosette, and a fart noise from Courfeyrac. “Serenade them, dear, like you did last summer with the girl scouts, remember?”

For some reason, Combeferre blushes to the roots of his hair, but the rest of the girl scout story is lost in the roaring laughter of Courfeyrac and Marius. Grantaire leans back in his chair. The cat has curled up again on his lap, and he’s absent-mindedly running his fingers through its fur. He still doesn’t like cats, but he could get used to that particular one.

When Bahorel and Joly arrive, Santa Clause turns out to be Bossuet in disguise, who lost a bet between the three of them and wears a red frock and an impressive white beard over a pillow tied to his belly. The striptease is a feast for all senses, with Joly producing some incense sticks and Courfeyrac singing the intro to _You Can Leave Your Hat On_ loudly and falsely.

Grantaire’s belly hurts from laughing, but as the evening’s approaching fast and their laughter is momentarily drowned in the overwhelming sound of all of Paris’ church bells ringing solemnly all at once, he can’t help but wonder where the hell Enjolras is. He doesn’t really believe they’re fighting anymore, that suspicion faded the soberer he got and the more of Les Amis “accidentally” arrived at the flat. But there’s still that nagging feeling that he could have done something wrong. Most prominent of all, however, is the overwhelming sensation of wanting him here, of _missing_ him, that’s choking him up when Combeferre takes out his guitar, and starts singing with a low voice, and all of _Les Amis_ listen without even daring to sigh too loudly.

_And I said hey honey, take a walk on the wild side._

Jehan has his eyes closed, his head resting on Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and even Courfeyrac is uncommonly quiet. Marius is playing with Cosette’s hair, and she’s weaving their fingers together, and Marius is still glowing from inside out as if she’d lit a flame inside of him. The lack of chairs has Bossuet, Bahorel and Joly sitting on the floor, with their backs to the radiator under the window, leaning on each other’s shoulders. If Grantaire could pick one moment of peacefulness to revisit when things get rough again, this would probably be it.

It doesn’t last for long. Later, each of Jehan’s Christmassy boxes turns out to contain a jumper hand-knitted by him during the endless hours of Creative Writing lectures (“Who needs lectures on how to write a poem anyways?”). The frenzy of seven students barely capable of living on their own being given appropriate winter clothing, hand-made with love, is almost unimaginable. All of the jumpers are different colours, Grantaire’s, however, is the only one with a letter stitched on the front, a giant red R, not unlike the one Grantaire painted on his bedroom wall last autumn.

“I thought if you don’t like it, you can wear it ironically”, Jehan says, who turned crimson red again under the avalanche of thanks and well-dones from the others.

“Are you kidding me?”, Grantaire says. “I _love_ it. I’m not going to wear anything else ever again!”

Courfeyrac pops up behind them and plants a kiss on Jehan’s cheek.

“You are _perfect_ , Prouvaire”, he says, with his usual goofy grin. Grantaire suspects that he somehow got hold of that last bottle of mulled wine earlier. “You are literally the most perfect person I ever met. And I’m not just saying that because it’s Christmas.” Jehan’s ears turn bright red, while Courfeyrac pulls him close and continues to go through the list of reasons Jehan should be awarded a medal of some sort for being the most perfect human being to ever walk the earth.

Grantaire hears Courfeyrac listing point four (“Perfect perfect hair”) before he turns away, smiling. Combeferre, Marius and Cosette are in deep conversation about one of their professors at University, who’s apparently a sexist, classist, racist, ableist, homophobic dickhead. Bossuet and Bahorel are betting again, with Joly watching. Bossuet wears the Santa beard on his head, with luscious white locks down his back and a moustache-shaped fringe, while he’s trying (and failing) to beat Bahorel at arm-wrestling.

Grantaire smiles, grabs his tobacco and retreats to the balcony. It has stopped snowing, but the air is crisp and cold and still tastes like snow. The backyard is scarcely illuminated by the golden light from numerous windows, behind all of which people are celebrating their own Christmas Eves. Grantaire closes his eyes and deeply inhales the first lung full of smoke. He can barely remember a Christmas like that. He remembers presents, and strangers who were supposed to be relatives, and fights, and special food his mother couldn’t cook but tried to anyways. This is different. The best kind of different.

A movement at his feet makes him open his eyes and look down; the cat followed him out on the balcony. He grabs the cat under its belly with one hand, while holding his cigarette in the other, and sits it down on the balustrade.

“Time to go home, buddy”, he says.

The cat looks at him with narrowed eyes and meows once.

“Hey!” There’s a voice from down in the backyard. “Are you talking to my cat by any chance?”

Grantaire bends over the balustrade to see who called. It’s dark, and the corners are lost in shadows, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone down there. He frowns.

“I’m right here!”

There’s a girl standing on the balcony below him, smoking, like he is, wearing a woollen sweater and a beanie head on top of a tuft of pink hair.

“Oh”, Grantaire says. “Hi. Did you lose your cat?”

“Yeah”, the girl says. “I was baking cookies and had a bit of an… accident… well, anyways, I opened the window, and he must’ve escaped though there.” She taps the ash off her cigarette on the edge of the balustrade.

“Oh”, Grantaire says. “Well, he spent a very agreeable day in our flat getting his belly rubbed.”

“That sounds like an appropriate Christmas Eve”, she says. “Much more exciting than watching me bake cookies all day.”

Grantaire grins. “He also joined a group of revolutionary students.”

“He’s not yet of age, you’re aware of that, right?”, the girl says, with a chuckle. “Are you guys having a party or something?”, she asks.

“Yeah”, Grantaire says. “I would’ve warned you, but I had no idea. Do you want to come up and collect your cat?”

“Do I have to join any anti-constitutional formations?”, she asks.

“Not if you don’t want to”, Grantaire answers.

The girl grins. “I’ll be right up.”

When he enters the flat again, the cat jumps down the balustrade and follows him inside.

“Where have you been hiding, Grantaire?”, Combeferre asks. “Seriously, your timing couldn’t be better if you had been in on this.”

“What are you talking about?”, Grantaire asks.

“Oh, nothing, really”, Combeferre says, and Grantaire already senses another surprise in store for him. He’s not entirely sure whether to be excited by that or terrified.

The doorbell goes, and Grantaire opens the door for the cat girl from downstairs.

“Hi”, she says, and presents him with a bag full of cookies, some of which are not entirely burnt. “Merry Christmas. And thanks for the involuntary cat sitting. I’m Éponine, by the way.”

Grantaire shakes her hand, and shows her into the kitchen.

“This is Éponine from downstairs, people”, he introduces her.

“I’m the crazy cat lady”, she says. There’s a round of applause at that, mainly from Combeferre, Bahorel, Bossuet and Joly. Cosette and Marius don’t seem to notice anything around them and Courfeyrac and Jehan are nowhere to be seen.

“Nice to see you again”, Éponine says to Marius, who tears his gaze from Cosette and looks at her as if he’d just awoken from a dream.

Marius seems to need a moment. Then, finally, it something seems to dawn upon him. “Oh. It’s you!”

“You’ve met?”, Combeferre asks.

“Yeah, I accidentally got the wrong door, back when Enjolras had just moved in. We had a chat.” For some reason, his ears are suddenly as pink as Éponine’s hair.

“How many times was that?”, Éponine says, chuckling. “Three? Four?”

Combeferre grins. “Smooth, Marius. Really smooth.” Marius looks as if he’d give a year of his life to be able to evaporate into thin air. Cosette just chuckles and plays with his hair.

“That was before you met her, obviously”, Éponine says with a smile and a nod to Cosette.  “I’m Éponine.” She offers Cosette her hand to shake. “Lovely to meet you.”

Cosette takes her hand, smiling. “I’m Cosette.”

“Anyways”, Éponine says. “When I just came up the stairs, I bumped into two guys carrying a monster of a Christmas tree. I assume that would be friends of yours as well?”

Grantaire sighs deeply. A fucking Christmas tree. “Whose idea was that?”, he asks, eying each of them intently. The others are suddenly very busy comparing each other’s jumpers.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings again. In front of it, Feuilly is balancing a giant net-packed Christmas tree. His face is red and he’s breathing heavily. “The stairs nearly killed me”, he says. “Merry Christmas, Grantaire.”

“Who the fuck thought this was a good idea?”, Grantaire asks, when Feuilly tries to squeeze himself and the Christmas tree through the narrow door all at once.

“It wasn’t my idea!”, Feuilly shouts from behind the tree.

“Anyways”, he says, when he’s finally inside, while trying to hold the tree upright with one hand and take of his coat, gloves and scarf with the other. “I’m supposed to tell you to go downstairs.”

“Why?”, Grantaire asks.

“It’s a surprise.”

Grantaire gives Feuilly a quizzical look, but part of him starts to hope already, and part of him already knows who’s waiting for him. Feuilly’s not entirely subtle eyebrow wiggle speaks volumes as well. “Better hurry”, he says, but Grantaire is already halfway down the stairs.

Enjolras definitely has every reason in the world to make Grantaire come down to the front door to meet him. With the streetlights illuminating him from the back, single snowflakes still silently tumbling in their light, Enjolras could as well be some kind of heavenly epiphany. The man knows how to make a scene, Grantaire has to give him that much.

“Merry Christmas”, Enjolras says.

Walking towards him, Grantaire feels a smile creep on his face, a smile that, once he stops in front of Enjolras, is so wide it hurts.

“What _is_ that?”, Enjolras says with a gesture to Grantaire’s jumper.

“Jehan made Weasley jumpers for all of us”, Grantaire explains, still grinning like an idiot. “There’s one for you, too, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Does it say E?”, Enjolras asks.

“I don’t know, we haven’t unwrapped it yet. Though I bet my ass it’s crimson red.”

Enjolras laughs. “Probably.”

They grin at each other, and there it is, that feeling Grantaire had about Christmas earlier, pulsing warmly inside of him, and maybe, given the circumstances, it would be save to say that this feeling is not just about Christmas, but has also a lot to do with the man standing in front of him.

“Where the hell were you all day”, Grantaire says, and tries his best to keep any trace of accusation out of his voice.

“I’m sorry”, Enjolras says. “I didn’t mean to take so long. I meant to be back around noon, but it turned out it’s absolutely impossible to find a Christmas tree around Paris on Christmas Eve. Who would’ve thought?”

He shrugs, and tugs on a loose thread on the seam of Grantaire’s jumper.

“Why the fuck a Christmas tree?”, Grantaire asks.

“Because you said so, idiot.”, Enjolras says, beaming at him.

“I did?” Grantaire frowns.

“Yes, you did.” Enjolras puts his arms around Grantaire’s waist and pulls him close. “Last night. Right before you fell asleep. Maybe you were asleep already. You said, shit, we didn’t buy a Christmas tree.” He smiles. “I figured I’d get you one.”

“You could’ve just told me, you know?”, Grantaire says, and this time he can’t help but sound a bit pissed off. It wouldn’t be the first time Enjolras has pulled a stunt like this, and at the rate they’re going, it’s most certainly not the last.

“I realize that”, Enjolras says, serious all of a sudden. “I did realize that. I called Jehan when I did to make sure you’re okay.”                                                                                                                                                                                                         

“You also stole all of my booze.” Grantaire smiles again.

“Yeah, that was a health and safety precaution.” Enjolras looks quite pleased with himself.

Grantaire raises one eyebrow. “You forgot the mulled wine.”

“Oh.” Grantaire laughs when Enjolras’ pleased smile crumbles before him. “Shit. Was it bad?”

“Really bad.” Grantaire playfully tucks at Enjolras’ hair that’s peeking out under his hat. Enjolras actually looks worried, and Grantaire tries a smile. “I blame you for all consequential damage.”

“Like?”

“Diabetes.” Grantaire lets a strand of Enjolras’ hair run through his fingers. “Oh, and there’s a cat in our flat.”

“A cat?”, Enjolras asks, softly, pulling him in, closing the distance between them ever so slowly.

“A cat.” Grantaire nods. He feels Enjolras’ breath on his neck, his soft hair on his cheek.

“Do I want to hear that story?”, Enjolras asks into the crook of Grantaire’s neck, his lips just grazing Grantaire’s skin.

“Yes you do”, Grantaire says, and closes his eyes. “But not right now.”

When they finally go upstairs, they are greeted by cheers, whistles and Courfeyrac shouting “Behold, the actual snow globe couple! We watched you from the window, you looked like Bridget Jones and what’s-his-name.”

Grantaire couldn’t care less. He knows he wears a stupid smile and a silly jumper, and his hair is a mess, and Enjolras’ arm is around his waist and his thumb is grazing his skin where Jehan’s jumper is just a little too short.

Feuilly set up the Christmas tree in Enjolras’ room, and to everyone’s amazement, it even fits, mostly, with the tip slightly bent under the ceiling.

“Glorious”, Courfeyrac says. He’s got his arm around Jehan, and judging by Jehan’s face, who looks about as happy as Grantaire feels, they should brace themselves for a flood of love poems in the next year. Éponine has joined Bahorel’s and Bossuet’s arm-wrestling, and much to Joly’s concern, she’s winning. The cat has curled up on Cosette’s lap, purring smugly, while Marius has never once stopped looking at Cosette, it seems. Combeferre took out his guitar again and is performing a swingy rendition of _Jingle Bells_ , with Feuilly, to all of their surprise, singing along with a smooth baritone.

It’s still snowing outside. Grantaire pulls Enjolras close, he smells of wood and resin, and there are still single fir needles in his hair.

“Merry Christmas”, Grantaire whispers. And for the first time in a very long time, he feels it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Now, if you did, and you want to know how E and R got together in the first place in this particular AU, you might want to take a look at my other fic, Close Quarters, to which this is basically a sequel. Just sayin'.


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